


To the Walls

by joannabelle



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Actually I wasn't, Angband, Crack, Don't Read This, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I have No Excuse, If you only read one work by me, M/M, References to Drugs, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor mixes up herbs in the Thangorodrim pits and ‘accidentally’ ends up hotboxing all of Angband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crackinthecup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. You can kind of tell, too. 
> 
> Warnings: CRACK. Plus severe marriage difficulties, and a Sauron who is both very butthurt yet simultaneously not butthurt enough.
> 
> Notes: This is so stupid; I’m not even going to pretend I’m sorry. Props to you if you can recognise the line I stole from my favourite film, tucked somewhere in this dialogue. 
> 
> Dedicated to Crackinthecup who you can personally thank for the disaster that is this smut. Seriously. Don’t blame me.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a cool day in Angband. Much as any other.  
  
The clouds were hanging thick and heavy, as only the most devious of heavy cloud could – and a healthy haze of smog lingered upon the air, churning out from the vents of Thangorodrim’s tallest peak.   
  
Surrounding the tower lay the Iron Mountains of the North, the pinnacle of the realm of Angband. And while they were an ominous range on a good day, on this particular afternoon the clouds had obscured the Sun in such a manner that the shadows of the peaks were unnaturally elongated: and as a result, had left Angband looking positively ferocious.  
  
Which was lucky. As the air, that day, smelled oddly rather … sweet.  
  
Yet still, the plains were quiet. And naught so much as the pesky wings of an eagle could be sensed flapping upon the horizon, ever watchful, nor the sound of the usual Orcish grunts did float upon the wind.  Nothing could be heard.  Well nothing, that is, except for one thing:  
  
_Whoosh!  
  
_ “ _Curse the Valar_!”   
  
The exclamation reverberated through the lands, echoing through the mires; and somewhere from his study in the upper levels of Angband, Lieutenant Mairon raised his head.  What was it _now_?  
  
For, deep in the pits below him, Lord Melkor was having a bit of a problem.   
  
This was not unusual, perse – for indeed it was true that Lord Melkor frequently had problems. However, on this particular afternoon, it was a problem that would end up slowly affecting them all.  
  
Inside the volcanic pits of Angband’s underground fortress and fanning at the flame, Melkor – the great Lord of the realm – stared tall down at the bubbling crater of magma in some vague form of aristocratic dismay.  Well: as much dismay as it was possible to feel as the Most Powerful of the Ainur (which was little). Melkor’s mouth twitched downwards in the corners, as he raised his chin.  
  
Blasted greenery.  
  
Despite his relative ignorance of the physical process of creating Thangorodrim’s smoke and other noxious fumes, Melkor was fairly sure … well, he was fairly sure that the magma should not be turning green.  But lo, there it was: bubbling the colour of burning mould – and puffing out some sickly sweetened steam upon the air, which curdled up the vents.  
  
He fanned his arms harder, scowling down in displeasure, as the mini tornado caused by his arm movements was not enough to stop the burn.  
  
And: _honestly_. This was a servant’s job!  
  
Or better yet, this was a _Lieutenant_ ’s job.  
  
Come to think of it – Melkor frowned – what was he doing here at all?  With the ever-sweetening smoke coiling up his nose the Vala paused in his ministrations to glance around the pit, a little bleary-eyed as he blinked like one of his brother’s useless eagles at the vast nothingness that was his company in the sticky hot furnace room.  
  
Yes: _Lieutenant Mairon_.  Where was he? That little tart: probably off skulking about in some highly suspicious manner throughout the fortress, as per usual. Melkor never was quite sure, but he knew he shouldn’t trust the bugger: red as his eyes burned and orange as his hair. Prettiness always came with a bite – and Melkor should know.  He was, after all, the best looking of all the Ainur and of all the other inhabitants of Eä – Ilúvatar included!  And he bit _hard_.  
  
Snorting, Melkor glided over to the hallway half obscured by a large piece of porous rock, and poked his head down the tunnel.  
  
Empty.  
  
“ _Lieutenant_!” He hollered down the corridor in his gravest tone, until the sound rumbled along the very stone of the walls and shook the insides of the volcano in some veiled fury of impending explosion.  “Lieutenant, come here!  Something foul is afoot,” he complained.  
  
In the distance there was a sigh, and Melkor’s face dropped in outrage.  
  
The nerve of him! That little savage –  
  
But a rough two and a half minutes later there was the tell-tale clack of antsy footsteps strutting down the hall, as from the direction of the tunnel sounded a dainty yet strangled cough, and Melkor was momentarily distracted of his anger.  _Right on time_ ; he allowed himself a smirk.  The Maia must have walked the whole left wing at top speed.  
  
For a misbehaving little twat, he certainly was a stooge; and this thought alone helped to clear Melkor’s rage.  
  
“What?” The fiery-haired Lieutenant spat, looking already rather irate as he strode through the entrance of the tunnel, reading glasses hanging off to one side.  He sent the Vala a glare, which Melkor thought was being rather _presumptuous_. Not to mention rude. “What did you do?”  
  
“What did _I_ do?” Melkor bit back, deeply offended. He spun around wildly, motioning to the pit. “You mean, what are _these_ doing in my smoke pile.”  He gestured over to the now empty bag of buds lying to the side.  
  
The Maia peered at it for a few moments, perplexed.  
  
“How …” he began, before pausing, “you don’t have a smoke pile … Oh _Eru_ –”  
  
“– Stop using that name,” Melkor griped.  
  
But realisation apparently was dawning, as the Lieutenant suddenly started to look a bit nervous. “My Lord … how much, exactly, did you put in?” he questioned, glancing back up at the Vala in the early stages of what could have been mistaken for guilt. Or panic.  
  
Melkor shrugged.  
  
“All of it.” he groused, inspecting a fingernail.  
  
Mairon paled, and Melkor tilted up his nose at the reaction, missing the Maia’s dawning look of horror. For, really, whom did Mairon think he was dealing with here: frugal bloody Estë?  
  
No.  This would not do.  
  
Melkor scoffed, feeling rather affronted, as he continued to pick out a piece of the plant from under his thumbnail. “Who do you think I _am_?” he admonished, partly to his finger and partly to the Lieutenant, when he deemed it time to bother glancing back up. Melkor felt his mood continue to deteriorate as Mairon simply stared back at him in shock.  
  
“What?” the Maia repeated, dumb: “… _All_ of it?”  
  
“It is not that hard to grasp, surely.”  
  
And Mairon started to pace: in a small worried circle around Melkor’s casual and relaxed pose – the pose of an Ainu who either really did not understand, or _really_ did not care.  Possibly both.  
  
Mairon’s behaviour was rather odd, though; but then again Melkor supposed it was also not _altogether_ surprising, as he half-watched in silence as Mairon minced his way around him in a ring.  He did strongly suspect the Maia had a few ticks.  Pacing was one of them, particularly in circular motions. Hoarding jewellery, it seemed, was another.  
  
Of course, nothing a good old-fashioned fucking couldn’t knock out of him.  Melkor grinned to himself, and lowered his hand – rather smug.  
  
“My Lord, what do you _mean_?” Mairon was continuing, as he cut through Melkor’s spiralling train of thought to break his circle and stride across to poke his head over the top of the pit, still bubbling wildly – and catching a face-full of smoke. “Oh shit.” Mairon leaned back, coughing violently.  
  
“Well you are placing your face in it.” Melkor pointed out with a lazy wave of his hand, and earned himself a glare.  
  
“My Lord,” Mairon seemed to be trying to restrain the level of his voice, yet his hands gestured in the air as a scowl broke across his forehead.  His hair was beginning to frizz from the steam, and his eyes looked wilder, which Melkor personally thought was rather odd … considering. “That was my per– I mean, the emergency supply!” the Maia ground, “Why in Eä did you not simply ask? This is not even your department – … Why were you even _in_ here?!”  
  
He rounded on the Vala, looking rather frustrated … or horny … or something.  
  
Melkor could never tell.  
  
Maybe _he_ was horny.  His eyes widened ever so slightly at the thought.  
  
“And you put all of it _in_?” Mairon was still, somehow, raging, oblivious to Melkor’s burgeoning, and far more interesting, train of thought.  
  
“It wasn’t smoky enough.” Melkor griped, frankly quite put off by the earful – the _completely unnecessary_ earful – that he was receiving.  
  
“I do not need to hear this,” he continued for good measure, and folded his arms to rise in height until he towered over the raging Lieutenant, and sent him a look of contrite condescension: “I am a _Vala_.” And Melkor snorted to himself. Surely his _own Lieutenant_ had not forgotten this prime piece of information!  
  
Mairon sputtered. “You _are_ –”  
  
But Melkor’s withering glare was enough to make the Maia pause, as Melkor scowled at Mairon down his nose, who was in turn was glaring back up at him in some look of sheer panic. “I _had my_ reasons,” Melkor went on, “and that is all you need to know of it. Harlot.”  
  
He had no reasons. He had been … bored.  
  
But, whatever: Mairon did not need to know this.  
  
Lord Melkor turned his head, then – _not_ in a huff, thank you very much, as those of the Valar do not huff, and certainly not He, the Mightiest of All – and tried to ignore the increasingly hazy air that was enveloping them both.  
  
“Well, shit.” Mairon floundered, giving up after another few moments of stubborn silence on Melkor’s end, as they both studiously ignored the continued bubbling of the mix. “The troops are going to get a load out of this…. – _Oh_.”  
  
Mairon’s eyes widened. “Oh _no_.” he uttered. And turning to Melkor, the Lieutenant’s face paled even further as his expression of panic both re-surged, and doubled in severity:  
  
“The _troops_!”  
  


* * *

  
“Wait.” Mairon paused, stopping short so fast in front of Melkor that the Vala had to skid to a sudden halt to avoid crashing them both to the floor: “What was I looking for again?”  
  
Mairon spun around, the light knit of a frown stitching across his forehead.  Melkor stared at it for a few moments, wondering how anyone’s hair could be that orange.  
  
“… The troops,” He supplied eventually.  
  
“Ah, yes.” Mairon nodded, the memory dawning on him. “Do you … do you happen to remember why?” Mairon looked hopeful.  
  
Melkor paused. “Not really.”  
  
And Melkor figured the delay in his response could be brushed off as a reaction to the drugs, as Mairon had so vehemently lectured him over for the last twenty minutes of their trek through the fortress.  In reality, he had simply not been paying attention.  
  
Mairon, on the other hand, was beginning to slur.  Just a weeny bit.  
  
Melkor decided it was rather endearing.  Mainly because the loss of words made it that much harder for Mairon to continue on a rant.  
  
He watched lazily as Mairon floundered, trying to look up and down the corridor they had just entered as though waiting for a clue to jump out at him.  
  
And well, Melkor thought, he would be most helpful, of course, and just stand there to wait as he enjoyed the blessed silent reprieve –  
  
He gave the Maia a few more minutes to come to his wits.  To no avail, it would seem.  
  
“Shall we have sex?” He suggested helpfully, switching tactics.  
  
Mairon stared at him, saying nothing, his eyes slightly glassy.  
  
Melkor took that as a yes.  
  


* * *

  
Somewhere in the nearby crevice of the Iron Mountains, the lefthand wing of Angband – currently undergoing some overdue structural renovations – was crumbling.  Rocks tumbled in a flow of debris down the mountainside, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake and a rumble upon the earth – as deep below, the thousand-odd Orcs technically assigned to the task sat instead in the watery tresses of Angband’s vast mire, utterly oblivious to the wreck.  
  
Fortunately for them (for now), the rulers of the Kingdom were currently, erm … busy.  
  
“ _Ow. No.  Not there_ –” There was a hiss.  
  
“Make up your damned mind!” another voice rumbled.  
  
“No – _no_ , my Lord!” Red hair flicked through the air, as the fair head of a scowling Ainur thrashed in refusal. “It is at the wrong angle, I told you! Look – just – ouch –”  
  
With a groan, Mairon pulled back up off Melkor’s lap, Melkor’s cock edging reluctantly out of him in the process with a loud slurp, to land stiffly upon the Vala’s chest. Mairon was unusually red-faced, and the Maia seemed suspiciously about to leave the chair they had squandered in the dining hall before Melkor pulled him back down with a firm grasp upon the upper arm.  
  
“And where do you think you are going?” He growled, sending the Maia a snarl that Mairon, apparently, quite liked – if the squirm was anything to go by: “You have a task to complete, you little scant.”  
  
The Lieutenant did not reply, flushing ever the further, as he panted loosely upon Melkor’s lap, somewhat dazed.  
  
The remnants of the Maia’s black robes were still sitting askew upon his shoulders, dishevelled as Melkor had left them, giving up halfway through the removal of his clothes for whatever reason, minutes before.  
  
But in the position now, however, Melkor couldn’t help but gripe, feeling oddly put out – not that, as a Vala, he had any sort of ‘feelings’ whatsoever, of course: “This is no way to treat your Vala!” he bitched, regardless, as he made to ‘slip’ back into Mairon quietly before the Maia really noticed – an action of which was thwarted rather quickly, as Mairon let out an outraged whine and raised himself again out of Melkor’s lap.  
  
“And you’re sticking it in the wrong _way_!  This is no way to treat my ass!” Mairon bitched in response, his lip curling over his top teeth until Melkor could count every single one of his canines. “If you’re going wield something so ridiculously large, Melkor, then learn to use it!”   
  
There was a pause.  
  
“With all due respect.” Mairon added, not sounding particularly respectful at all.  
  
Melkor stared for a moment further, unsure which part of the Maia’s words to focus on first – then scoffed, the silliness of Mairon’s request seeming even more ridiculous now than it had the day prior.  
  
“The wrong way!” he guffed, “there’s only one way to put it in Maia, how many times have we done this? How much of that smoke have you breathed in?”  
  
“It’s twice the size this week!” Mairon made another attempt to leave the chair, but Melkor’s grip tightened until it bruised. “Melkor, how do you propose this fits?! You keep slipping right past it! I feel like I’m sitting on your arm, for Eru’s sake!”   
  
“You are not getting out of this,” Melkor growled. “And stop using that name.”  
  
“Wha-“  
  
In one fell move Melkor flipped them off the chair and onto the floor, Mairon landing with an outraged thump upon the ground.  But before the Maia had a chance to wiggle his way out of this one, Melkor had pinned the squirming redhead to the stone tiles, the length of his forearm weighing down Mairon’s nape.  
  
“Shit,” Mairon hissed, his voice muffled heavily into the tile.  
  
Although he supposed for anyone walking in the situation may look odd, Melkor felt rather giddy. His vision was blurring in the most pleasant of manners and really, Mairon looked like he was rather enjoying himself, if their mutual panting was anything to go off.  He stared at the freckles along Mairon’s back, as he noticed – for the first time – that there on the Maia’s skin was spelled the dotted flitters of a song.  Much in the way Varda’s stars trilled their incandescent melody across the sky; it was all there, mapped out between Mairon’s shoulder blades.  
  
Melkor groaned, and pressed down harder, angling his crotch along Mairon’s buttocks.  He was already so hard, his new and improved appendage reaching almost to his nipples, as with reverence Melkor ground the underside of his cock up and down the line of Mairon’s back.  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
Fuck yes.  
  
Dizzily, he repositioned his cock back between Mairon’s legs, which the Maia had clung shut below him in some whiny protest.  
  
“No matter,” Melkor grumbled, slipping his head between the tightness of Mairon’s thighs, and he hissed as the sweat and saliva from their earlier dry-humping allow him to slide thickly into the warmth.  
  
Experimentally, Melkor pushed further until he was half-caught, groaning so heavy the tiles themselves shook. “Yessss, that’s it precious. Keep tight for me.”  
  
Something felt a bit strange, but this was easier than he had thought.  Really, Melkor did not know what Mairon had made so much of a fuss about – but there the Maia lay, shuddering yet still below him, as Melkor’s left arm pinned across the smaller Ainu’s nape to press Mairon’s mouth into the floor. And with his other hand, Melkor guided himself further in without really looking.  
  
Ah.   _Bliss_.  Brilliant, hazy bliss.  
  
“Melkor –“ Mairon piped up from below him, wiggling a little. “You’re not – “  
  
But Melkor was having none of it. “Hush, Maia.  I have heard enough of you.” He cut in, adding a grunt for good measure as he pushed again forwards and – through the cushioned feeling floating through his hröa – heard Mairon curse.  
  
Melkor chuckled.  
  
Poor Mairon – must be hammered: he was, after all, far more susceptible to this kind of thing, this _smoke_.  Being a Maia and all.  
  
Pulling back, Melkor wasted no time with that boring trap of “preparation”: but instead, he began to pound in earnest, and attributed the slightly painful scraping of his tip with every thrust to the unfortunate side-effect of too little oil.   
  
Oh well.  
  
Harder and harder he moved, the room filling now with naught but the sound of balls slapped against flesh, and two mutual, ragged groans – of Melkor, with every push of his hips, and of Mairon, muffled hard into the floor.  With each thrust Mairon was slid across the tiles, as he moaned something indecent Melkor could not quite make out, caught up in the flurry of the second as he was. He was certain, however, it would have been a plea to go faster.  
  
So naturally, Melkor obliged.  
  
“F- _fuuck_.  My Lord, I really need to mention–”  
  
Melkor ground Mairon’s face harder into the tile, but the Maia continued, almost in spite:  
  
“– _you are hurting my knees. I_ –”  
  
Melkor slammed his hips harder, forcing Mairon to a whine.  “What will it take–” and here the Vala paused, a rough grunt burning it way from his lips as Mairon clamped tighter around him in response to the flick of his hips, “to make you–” he gripped his hands harder upon Mairon’s hips, ignoring the dull, steady aching in his fingers, “– shut – up?”  
  
And in one final movement to stifle Mairon’s inevitable response – sometimes Melkor wondered why he bothered with this whole thing at all – the Lord of Angband grabbed Mairon’s bright orange hair in his left fist, and smothered his own face with it. The scent tasted like a crispy mix of cinnamon and the sweet dull stench of smoke, from where Mairon had tipped his face over the pit but an hour before.  
  
And into the taste of the locks, and the feelings of the tresses like silk across his skin, Melkor felt the orgasm rip through him – almost – almost – and he ground his hips hard into Mairon and steadied, holding himself in place to the hilt.  But the high seemed muffled, and strangely cushioned from the choking ecstasy of his usual peak, as the Vala twitched angrily: feeling himself come but strangely not the slick of it hot against his cock.  
  
He stilled with his face buried into Mairon’s hair, for a few minutes – before realising that possibly the arm he had clamped down across the Maia’s nape may not be the best idea, if the Maia’s stillness and sudden silence was anything to go by.  
  
“Mairon,” Melkor grunted, sitting back and nudging the facedown Maia with his elbow.  “You still awake?”  
  
“Yes.” Though the response was gritted, and still muffled, unimpressed, into the floor.  “Thanks for that, my Lord.”  
  
Ignoring the dripping sarcasm Melkor afforded himself a grin, stretching back in an arch as he let out a long, sated sigh.  
  
“Well, that was not too bad.” He commented, the high still floating along his bones.  
  
Mairon let out a curse – and a rather vile one, at that.  Really, what was his problem?  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Mairon huffed, and shifted roughly out from under him, turning around with a scowl.  
  
It was then that Melkor noticed that the Maia was still half-hard.  And maybe … just maybe … rather dry.  
  
Huh.   
  
“… You did not finish.” Melkor stated – coming to this conclusion after another few long seconds in silence.  
  
Mairon shot him a _look._ A look of, well … a look that one could only describe as utter abhorrence.  
  
“You … have no idea, do you.” The Maia deadpanned, glaring up at him from through oddly bent eyelashes, probably from being squashed for so long against the floor.  
  
It was rather endearing, Melkor thought, through the fog –  
  
“ _Melkor_.” The Maia spat, his face furling in what bordered on a pout. “Are you even listening to me?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Oh that is _it_!” Mairon snapped, pushing the Vala off him completely and stumbling to a stand. “I cannot believe you fucked me for half an hour – _half an hour_ , Melkor, and _yes_!” Mairon responded to Melkor’s growing expression of disbelief. “I _was_ counting, _because I was so_ _bored_ – and you did not even _realise_!  Not _once_!”  
  
Melkor was at a loss, though his high was lessening from all the yelling, as the Maia seemed to become more and more irate.  
  
“Realise what?” He grumbled, rather put out. “What is the issue now?”  
  
A vessel in the Maia’s temple appeared to pop:  
  
“ _You weren’t even inside me_!” Sauron shrieked, his eyes still glassy, but burning, livid and wild.   
  
Fëanor’s balls. Melkor supposed this was the reason Mairon avoided alcohol.  
  
“Calm down,” The Vala chided, still not quite understanding what all the fuss was about. “And your problem is what, exactly?”  
  
“I – what? – you were thrusting between my thighs –” Mairon began to splutter, and turned redder in the face as Melkor simply kneeled there (comprehension dawning, though he chose to hide this from his face), and stared. “You never even made it inside me–”  
  
“Yes, okay … and yet the end result was still the same, was it not.” Melkor countered.  
  
“What?!” Mairon spat. “I did not get anything out of this at all!”  
  
The Vala shrugged.  
  
Details.   
  
“You will get what you are given, you little tart.  Anyway, it is of no matter now.” Melkor concluded, and waved a hand, “All water under the bridge.”  
  
“You –” Mairon floundered, slack-jawed as Melkor pulled himself up off the floor and began to slip back on his robe. “You –”  
  
“I feel hunger,” the Vala announced.  
  
And with that Melkor stretched and, ignoring the look of outraged fury bleeding across the Lieutenant’s face (he would pay for it later, that was for sure) who had not moved, he turned and began to glide down the hall: off in a lone and concentrated search for the kitchens.  
  



End file.
